


Please Make It Go Away

by ineedtochangemyusername



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedtochangemyusername/pseuds/ineedtochangemyusername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which Sherlock and John find a teenager who wants nothing more than love and friendship. Future Sherlock/Molly pairing WARNING: self-harm fic, possible triggers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. This was my first fanfic ever, and it is on ff.net. I decided to try posting it on here. Please enjoy. Will update every other week. This is mostly unbetaed so bear with me.

I was running. I was running away from life, from the pain, from the nightmares that seemed to constantly plague my sleep, whenever I was lucky enough to beat my insomnia for a few hours. I never stayed in one place for too long, and rarely talked to people. I slept on park benches, and ate only a few times a week. I never was really hungry anyways. I had managed to avoid the police who would probably be suspicious of a 15 year old out on the streets by herself. My social interaction mostly consisted of the occasional shopping trip to get necessities and using public restrooms. Other than that I kept to myself. It’s not that I was homeless or anything. Alright, I suppose I am homeless, but it’s not because I was kicked out, or don’t have enough money or anything like that. I ran away from my home about three months ago.  
My mom and dad got divorced a year ago, and I hated my dad. Four months ago, my mom and I were in a car crash. She died on impact, and I was hospitalized for a week. I suffered a minor concussion, and several bruised ribs. After I was released from the hospital, my dad made me go see a shrink, which only increased my distain of him, and was diagnosed with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and depression. Every night I would go in my room and lay on my bed to think. My brain works differently than most peoples’ do. I notice the little details about someone and I think faster than I can handle. Sometimes it gets so bad that it hurts and makes me want to scream in agony. I think of everything I have ever done wrong and dwell on things I shouldn’t. There was no end to my constant suffering, no matter what I did. I left a month after my mom’s funeral and went to go live in the one place I had always wanted to live. London.   
After stealing some money from my dad, and gathering everything I wanted to take in a backpack, I hailed a cab to take me to the airport. The cabbie jabbered on constantly about this and that, although I wasn’t really listening. When I got to the airport, I bought a ticket for the soonest departing flight which was in half an hour. I got through security and quickly ran to the bathroom. I had been having panic attacks since I was little, and could feel one coming on. I went in one of the stalls just as the violent shaking started. Taking in deep breaths, I tried to block out all the noise by putting my hands over my ears but to no avail. A toilet flushed and my heart began to race. When a baby started to cry, it pushed me over the edge.   
I couldn’t see straight, and my head was spinning. A wave of nausea washed over me and I turned toward the toilet as the remains of what my dad had forced me to eat for dinner last night made a reappearance. I gagged and reached over to pull a piece of toilet paper from the roll to wipe my mouth with. When I stopped feeling like I was going to vomit again, I reached up and flushed all of it away. I pulled myself up to sit on the seat and reached in my bag for my headphones and iPod. I squinted and tried to control the shaking as I attempted to plug the headphones in the jack. After a few tries, I finally got them to click in place and scrolled through my music to find the songs that calmed me down. Most of them had a piano, guitar, or violin accompanied by a soft voice. I turned up the volume and leaned my back up against the wall. I focused on the music taking over my head, and took deep breaths. After a few minutes, I was back under control and opened my eyes. I pulled the headphones from my ears and shoved them and the iPod back in my bag. I opened the stall and walked to the sink to clean myself up. The bathroom was buzzing with women, so I quickly fixed my hair and the lines made by my dark eyeliner and tears. I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck and sighed.  
As I exited the bathroom, I pulled a piece of gum from my pocket in an attempt to make the vomit taste that lingered in my mouth go away. I was still shaking, but not as bad. I glanced down at my watch to see the time just as a women’s voice boomed on the speakers, “Flight 103 for London boarding now.” “Shit,” I muttered and began jogging to the gate. I made it just in time to get board the plane, and as I walked down the aisle, found my seat and breathed a sigh of relief that it was a window seat. I reached up to throw my bag in the overhead compartment, but not without grabbing my iPod back out. Unfortunately, due to my small size, I couldn’t quite get it in and huffed in annoyance. “Excuse me sir?” I said to the man sitting behind me. “Um I can’t quite reach,” I said nodding to the compartment.   
He chuckled and said, “Of course!” He stood up and took my bag to put it away, and smiled again.   
“Thanks a ton!” I said with a smile and sat back down. Throughout the flight I dozed on and off thankful that there was nobody else in the seats next to me. To my surprise, this wasn’t a very full flight. When we landed, the man was kind enough to get my bag down without me asking him. I smiled and thanked him again before exiting the plane. Keeping my head down, I walked through the airport and exited into the cool air. I just began walking and just never stopped. I was so happy to see all of the things I had only dreamt about seeing like Big Ben and Parliament.   
So that is how I ended up here, on a park bench at three o’clock in the morning staring at my hand. Clenched in my fist was a tool, a weapon, whatever you want to call it. It was a razor blade. My stomach churned as I tried to fight the feeling of dependency on the small metal object that I turned over and over again in my hand. It was beautiful and disgusting at the same time. I sighed and leaned my head back over the bench. I knew exactly what was going to happen, as it happened every single night. I would debate about whether to use it or not, and would give in to the temptation. I would roll up my sleeves or my pants and begin the task of removing myself from the present. This is exactly how it happened. I groaned and began to roll up my sleeves revealing my secret life. Scars littered the skin and red lines crisscrossed over blue veins. I always started out with just light scratches, but somehow it wouldn’t be enough and soon I was cutting deeper and deeper. I reveled in the blood that slowly seeped out and began to drip down my arm. I breathed a sigh of relief at the pain. It would take me away from the pain, and slow down my thinking a bit. It was wonderful. I put my blade bag in the same bag I had carried with me for months carefully hidden inside a sock. I curled up on the bench and cried myself to sleep. I despised myself for letting it get this far.   
“Hurry John, we’re losing him!” I woke up to see a man dressed in black running down the sidewalk followed by a tall man in an overcoat, and a smaller man trailing behind him. I stood up to make a hasty retreat like I normally do whenever anybody was coming towards me, but I was still groggy from actually sleeping last night, and was not quick enough this time. The man in black reached me, and pulled me away from the bench roughly by my arm, and wrapped his arm around my neck. “Let me go!” I cried.  
“Stop struggling!” he hissed in my ear and held a gun to my temple. I could feel a panic attack coming on and tried really hard to not let it overtake me. I glanced up to see the other two men standing in front of me, both holding guns. “Drop your guns boys!” the man holding me said, “or I shoot her,” he said as he released the safety on the gun. The shorter man lowered his gun and put up his hands up as he stood, but the taller man did nothing. “Sherlock, put it down,” he said.  
“Listen to John, Sherlock, or you will have her blood on your hands,” said my captor. I whimpered and prayed that the man named Sherlock would listen and as if on cue, he lowered the gun and gave the man holding me a look that honestly made me fear him worse than the gun being held against my temple.   
“Let her go Seb,” the Sherlock said. “She has nothing to do with your battle against John and I.” I heard tires screech and all four of us turned our heads to see a black car pull up on the street next to us. “Fine Sherlock,” Seb said with a chuckle. “If you want her, here she is!” He said as he pulled out a syringe, and pushed it into my neck, and then pushed me towards Sherlock roughly. “My ride is here,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran and jumped into the car that hastily disappeared around the corner.   
Sherlock caught me and helped to stand me up as John came up and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright honey?” he asked worriedly. “I’m, I’m fine.” I struggled to say as I collapsed into John’s arms and then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

When I woke up, I was underneath a very big blanket and laying on a couch it a cozy room. There was a fire burning and looking around, I saw Sherlock looking out the window and playing a violin. I smiled to myself because the mere sound of it seemed to calm me down right away. John was sitting in a chair on one side of the fireplace and typing away on a laptop. I sat up and pushed the blanket away. “Oh!” said John seeing that I was awake. “Good morning to you. You seemed to have worn off your drugs.”

“My drugs?” I asked confusedly and groggily.

“What do you remember about today?” John asked me as he walked over to sit next to me on the couch.

“I remember you two and a man named Seb I think it was, running towards me. Seb grabbed me and threatened me. Then he left. Why am I here?” I asked. “Oh my gosh, where is my bag??” I began to panic and stood up suddenly.

“Relax,” said John standing up and grabbing my arm. “Calm down, it is right here,” he said leaning down to pick up my backpack and handed it to me. “Now, why don’t you tell me your name? I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes,” he said gesturing to the man with the violin. At this Sherlock looked over toward us and stopped playing for the first time since I had awoken and nodded at me.

“I’m Amy,” I said quietly. “Where am I?”

“Hi Amy, nice to meet you,” John said. “When Seb left, he drugged you and you fainted. We took you here, to our flat. Well, Sherlock’s flat. I used to live here, but I got married.” He paused. “Do you want to tell us why you were all alone, sleeping on a park bench?”

I didn’t know what to say and looked down at my sleeves, which I self-consciously pulled down even further. At this, Sherlock set down the violin, and strode over to us on long legs. “Isn’t it obvious John?” he asked. “Young American, asleep on a park bench, recently suffered a loss, and is now on the run. She suffers from insomnia judging by the dark circles under her eyes. Has money to buy clothes, food, and hygienic products and is well taken care of, but chooses to live on the street. Possibly this is because she fears having to go back to where she came from, possibly because she has social anxiety, maybe even both.”

“What are you a private investigator or something?” I asked sarcastically.

“Consulting detective,” He answered calmly.

John shot Sherlock a look, and he walked dejectedly back to the chair where he set his violin and resumed the song. “Ignore him, he can be, umm, brutally honest sometimes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response and I cracked a smile. “Now, do you want to tell us about yourself sweetie?”

“No, not really, you will take me to the police and they will make me go home. I don’t want to go back, so if you don’t mind, I will be going now. Thank you for taking care of me,” I said standing up.

“Wait,” said John, “we won’t turn you over to the police. You have my word.”

The look in his eyes made me trust him wholeheartedly, and so whether it was in my best interest or not, I sat back down. “Please tell us about yourself, and we can help you.”

“Um, well I told you my name was Amy. Four months ago, my mom died. My parents are, well, were divorced. I went to live with my dad and I hate him. He is a jerk, and drinks too much. I hated living with him, so I ran away. I have been living here for three months.”

“Do you have a home?” asked John concernedly.

“Whatever park bench is comfortable that night,” I shrugged.

John furrowed his brow and shifted on the chair. He pursed his lips momentarily, and then asked, “Do you want to live here?”

“WHAT?!?!” Sherlock and I asked at the same time.

“Jesus, calm down!” John said “you would have thought I just asked you two to help me rob the bloody Bank of England.” He shot Sherlock a warning look when he opened his mouth to protest. “You could take my old room upstairs and you would have a place to stay with good cooking from Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, and you won’t have to worry because we will not make you go back to your father. I promise.”

I didn’t know what to say, I was so taken aback. I wanted so badly to say yes, but I was scared. They seemed nice enough, but then again that is what most girls say about men right before they are kidnapped and sold into the sex market. The desire to sleep in a bed and be in a home again was so great that I meekly asked, “Are you sure Mr. Watson?”

“Please, call me John, and I am quite sure,” he said with a smile and he patted my shoulder.

“And are you sure Mr. Holmes?” I asked turning to look at the tall man playing the violin.

“It’s Sherlock,” he mumbled and said after a second, “Yes, you can stay here, it will be nice to talk to someone besides my skull again.”

“What?” I asked in astonishment, and looked over at John. He pointed to the human skull on the mantelpiece and shook his head.

“Don’t even ask,” he said. “You will get used to the interestingness that comes with being Sherlock’s flat mate.” I giggled in response. He smiled and stood up, slapping his hands on his knees as he did so. “Well grab your bag, and I will show you to your new room.

“Alright,” I said thankfully and pulled the backpack that I had been holding in my lap over my shoulder. We walked up the stairs and the creaked under my feet as we ascended to the room at the top of the stairs. When we entered the room I saw a bed sitting in the corner with a nightstand next to is. There was a closet to my left and a dresser next to the nightstand. To my right, under a window, was a small desk with books on top. I lovingly ran my finger over the spines and smiles. Books were so dear to me and I loved to read, but was not able to take any books with me when I ran. That made me almost as happy as the bed. John sat on the bed and smiled when he noticed me studying the books.

“You like to read?” he asked.

“Oh I adore it! I have missed books so very much,” I sighed.

He chuckled and said, “Well you will enjoy talking to Sherlock then. He is almost as entertaining as reading a novel.”

“No offense to him John, but I highly doubt it,” I replied. “There is no comparison to being lost in the words that are so beautifully put together creating a completely different universe.”

“You really do love reading don’t you?” he smiled.

I turned around when I heard a knock at the door and turned around to see an elderly lady poking her head in the door. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “Sherlock told me that he had a young lady staying with us now and I just had to come meet her.” She walked over to me and embraced me in a hug. She smelt of good food and perfume. I hugged her back and giggled.

“Hi, I’m Amy!” I said and waved my hand slightly.

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, your landlady, but not your housekeeper as these two would have you believe,” she said jutting her thumb over at John who grinned like a little boy who was being scolded. “Well let’s get a good look at you,” she said as she held me back and studied me. “We need to get some food in you young lady,” she said and tutted. “Do you like anything in particular for dinner? I will make whatever sounds good for your first night with us, and we will have Mary over too! Oh yes!” she said clapping her hands together. “So what will it be?” she asked excitedly.

“Um, spaghetti please?” I asked.

“Spaghetti it is!” she cried and walked off down the stairs.

I laughed and said, “I like her!”

“Yes, we all do!” he chuckled. “Sherlock once almost killed a man for threatening her.

“Question, who is Mary?” I asked.

“Mary would be my beautiful wife,” John answered with a smile.

“Oh,” I replied. “I would very much like to meet her!”

“Well you will get to at dinner! I should probably get back to her and tell her that we will be coming over tonight, I will let you get settled in and read a book,” he smiled. “Sherlock will be downstairs and Mrs. Hudson is on the ground floor if you need anything.” He stood up and began to walk out of the room.

“John?” I said when he reached the door.

“Yes Amy?” he asked.

“Just, um, thank you so much…for everything.”

“Oh Amy,” he smiled and walked over to me wrapping his arms around me in a hug. “You are very welcome.” He left the room and I walked over and sat on the bed next to my backpack. It was strange, I had only known him for a few hours, but I trusted him, and even Sherlock who intimated me, so much and I felt as if I had known them for years.

I unpacked everything that I had from my backpack and placed it on the bed. It included three long sleeve shirts, one pair of pants (not the ones I was wearing of course), four pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks (one which held my razor), a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, some dental floss, a small bottle of shampoo, and one of conditioner, a hairbrush, a shaving razor, one liquid eyeliner, a picture of my mother, my iPod, headphones, and charger. I had been charging it at McDonalds whenever I possibly could. I was wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt, my only bra, underwear, socks and black converse as well as my watch. That was all that I had in my possession. I placed all of the clothes in the dresser drawers besides the shirts which I hung in the closet. I stepped back and laughed at how dismally bare it looked with only three lonely shirts.

I collected the shampoo, conditioner, and shaving razor, as well as a change of clothes in which I concealed my razor. I was in need of a “fix”, as I had not had one since last night. Scooping all of it up, I walked down stairs and found Sherlock had moved from playing the violin and was now sitting at the dinner table hunched over a microscope. Next to him was what looked like a jar of eyeballs. “Are those HUMAN eyeballs?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, they are. Any more stupidly obvious questions?”

“Yeah, where in the world did you get human eyeballs?”

“From the morgue, my friend Molly is a pathologist there,” he answered in a bored tone.

“One more question,” I said.

He didn’t look up from the microscope but raised his eyebrows as if to say, “And that is?”

“May I use the shower?” I asked.

This time he did look up and said, “You know you don’t need to ask me to use the shower. You live here now.”

“I have only lived here for an hour. It has been your place much longer than me.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and said, “Yes, you can use the shower it is right through there,” he said pointing through the kitchen. It’s the door on the left. The one on right is my bedroom.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” I said as I walked towards the bathroom. I could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning into the back of my head and when I reached the bathroom door, I turned around and shot him a questioning glance.

I caught a glimpse of his face which looked worried before he quickly looked back down to the microscope. I shut the door to the bathroom and turned the shower on. Soon the room was full of steam and it cleared my head. I stripped down and sat on the closed toilet turning my razor over and over again in the palm of my hand. If Sherlock and John only knew what kind of horrible person I am. They could never ever find out, or they would throw me out for sure, or worse, send me back to my dad. The thought was so awful, that tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them away so that I could see what I was doing. When I slipped the metal against my skin, I sighed. There was nothing that compared to the feeling of the cool blade for a moment, followed by the hot sticky blood. After a few minor cuts on my right arm, I moved to my left arm where I could inflict the real damage. They began to get deeper and deeper, but I was careful to avoid any of my large veins as I would rather not have to have Sherlock come find me naked on the bathroom floor in a pool of my own blood.

Soon, my arms were too abused to inflict any more damage. I moved to my thighs, which is a rarity. I save them for when I am particularly upset as I am right now. I loathed myself more and more with each stroke of the blade. When my legs were finished I sat for a moment trying to catch my breath. All of this had taken about six or seven minutes, so I had to hurry up and get in the shower. When I climbed in, the blood on my arms was dry, but my legs were still bleeding. The hot water stung as it washed away the sticky mess. By the time I finished washing my hair, the bleeding had stopped so that I was able to do a quick shave of my legs, careful to avoid the new cuts as they could bleed again very easily.

I held my arms out and looked at the scars littering them. Some were jagged and white, some were perfect cuts that were only red lines. There were various stages of them, from my fresh ones, to the scars from my very first few bad cuts. My thighs were worse than my legs, as the cuts that were inflicted there were very deep, and none of them healed without leaving scars. I sighed and turned to turn off the shower, and pulled a towel down from the shelves above the toilet. After wrapping myself in it, I stepped out back on the rug in front of the shower. I glanced at the toilet and saw that some blood had dripped onto the porcelain and the tile surrounding it. I grabbed some toilet paper and knelt to wipe it up. I flushed the bloody paper away, and began to dry off.

After I was dry enough, I pulled on my clothes, and folded the dirty ones, concealing my blade inside. I wiped down the mirror and quickly added more eyeliner, darkening my eyes. I heaved another sigh and gathered all of my belongings in my arms and left the bathroom. Sherlock had not moved from the dining table and was still hunched over the microscope, muttering to himself. He didn’t even notice me, so I just went up to my room without saying anything. I put my blade back in my socks, and put the dirty clothes in a basket in the closet that I assumed was a hamper. The shampoo, conditioner, eyeliner, and shaving razor went on a shelf in the closet, and I draped the wet towel over the back of the chair that sat at the desk after running it over my head one more time. I walked over to the side table where I had set the hairbrush and my mom’s picture. I grabbed the brush and attempted to free my brown hair of the tangles that constantly plagued me.

I turned on the lamp sitting next to the picture, and walked back to the desk. After looking through the books, I found that they included _Julius Ceaser, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Iliad, Kidnapped, and The Count of Monte Cristo_. I decided on _The Iliad_ , even though I had read it numerous times. Then again though, I had read all of them at least once. I loved books, but old books especially had a special place in my heart. I plopped down on the bed and stretched out. It felt good to be showered, and laying on a bed with a book. I began to read, and before I knew it, I had fallen into the familiar story with characters that I had met hundreds of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes are mine. Please comment.


	3. Chapter 3

I didn’t even hear anybody enter my room, I was so immersed in my book. “Knock, knock,” said a nice sounding voice. I looked up to see a pretty woman with short blonde hair and a sweet smile enter my room. “Hi there, I’m Mary, John’s wife. You must be Amy, the latest addition to Baker Street.” She walked over to sit on the bed next to me. Her protruding belly told me that she was pregnant and I smiled to myself. John would make a good father.

“Hi, yeah I’m Amy,” I smiled and waved. She plopped down next to me and glanced at the book that I had lying face down on the bed.

“Ahh, Homer,” she said and chuckled. “I always preferred _The Odyssey_ over _The Iliad_ myself. Paris just annoys me,” she chuckled to herself. I laughed along with her.

“Yeah, I do too, but I have slim pickings,” I said as I gestured over to the books on my desk.

“Well Sherlock has plenty more books than that my dear. Just ask him about borrowing some when you finish this one. He will be more than happy to oblige, as long as you don’t dog-ear any pages.” I smiled because that was one of my worst pet peeves ever. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t as intimidating as I thought, and just had a hard time around people like I did. “And if he doesn’t let you borrow any,” Mary continued, “he will have to answer to me!” she punched her fist into the palm of her other hand and laughed again. She had a really nice laugh, and I smiled at her. I could tell that I liked her right away. “Anyhoo, I was sent up here by Mrs. Hudson to retrieve you. Dinner is served. I heard that you ordered spaghetti. Good choice!” I stood up and Mary attempted to do the same but fell back on the bed holding her belly and chuckling. “Mind giving me a hand,” she asked.

“Sure thing,” I laughed and pulled her up to stand next to me.

“Thanks! Now why don’t we go get some of that spaghetti?” We made our way down the stairs and entered the living room. John was sitting in the chair to the left of the fire again and reading over a file that was resting in his lap. Mary walked over and sat on the arm or the chair, and put her arm around his shoulder. John looked up and smiled at her. I walked over and sat in the chair across from him earning me a look from Sherlock. This must be HIS chair. Well I wouldn’t be sitting there again.

“I see you have met Mary. Isn’t she beautiful?” John said before he leaned over and kissed Mary’s belly.

I giggled when Mary smacked him playfully and answered, “Yes, she is very beautiful.” Mary smiled at me. I heard glass shatter and looked up to see Sherlock leaning down to pick something up in the kitchen. I walked over to him and heard him mumbling to himself. “Need any help?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hudson is making me move all of my things off of the table,” he said annoyed. “I knocked over a petri dish in the process.” He went to pick up the last piece of glass and sliced his thumb on it. “Shit!” he exclaimed and shook it in pain.

“Here, let me help,” I offered and helped him to the sink where he held his thumb under the running water. While he did that, I scooped up the glass and threw it in the trash can. I went back to the bathroom and pulled a box of Band-Aids out from under the sink and brought them back to the kitchen. By now the bleeding had stopped and I wiped the remains of it away and dried his finger with a towel. Carefully, I wrapped the Band-Aid around it and finished with, “Viola!”

“Nurse Amy to the rescue!” exclaimed John when he walked in the room earning a smile from me. “Hey, you’re pretty good with blood there. Most girls are pretty squeamish.”

“You have no idea,” I murmured under my breath.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just thinking out loud,” I said shaking my head.

“Thanks for that,” Sherlock said quietly as he continued to clear away papers, and such from the table.

“Don’t mind him,” said John nodding towards Sherlock. “He is trying, but has a hard time talking to people he doesn’t know very well.”

“It’s ok, neither do I,” I replied with a smile. John smiled back, then went and scooped up the microscope from the table, and the remaining folders, and carried them to the desk on the other side of the room. “I’m going to go see if Mrs. Hudson needs any help,” I announced to nobody in particular, and walked downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

I knocked on the door and heard a, “Come in!” from inside, and so I pushed open the door and walked in. I made my way to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was scurrying around and stirring pots on the stove. “Oh, Amy it’s you! Do you need something?”

“No, actually I came down here to ask you the same question. It smells amazing in here,” I said as she pulled out some garlic bread from the oven.

“Oh dearie, that would be most appreciated! Will you be a doll and bring this and that salad over there up stairs?” She asked handing me the bread which she had put on a bread plate. “I will bring up the spaghetti.” She grabbed the great big pot off of the stove by its handles and followed me after I picked up the salad that was sitting on the table in a bowl with my free hand.

When we got back upstairs, Mary was setting the table and John and Sherlock were studying the file that John had been reading earlier. “Wow that is some good smelling food!” Mary exclaimed when we came in the door. I set the bread and salad on the table, and Mrs. Hudson placed the spaghetti pot on the stove.

“Will you be a doll and bring me the plates so that I can serve them up here and avoid all the mess of doing it at the table?” she asked Mary.

“You betcha,” said Mary as I helped her to gather the plates, and bring the full ones back to the table. When we had finished, John and Sherlock stepped away from their folder and came to sit down. Sherlock sat at the head of the table with me on his right and Mrs. Hudson next to me. To his left, John sat with Mary at his side.

I leaned down to take a bite, just as John asked me, “So Amy, how old are you exactly?” Noticing that I was chewing he laughed and apologized.

When I had finished, I answered, “I turned fifteen last month on the 22nd.”

“No kidding?” Mary said. “That is my birthday too! Of course, I didn’t turn fifteen.” This earned a laugh from all of us except Sherlock who had sat unamused, fiddling with the spaghetti on his plate.

“So John, what did you think of the case?” Sherlock suddenly said looking to the man on his left.

John wiped his mouth with his napkin before answering, “Well you are right, the man was dead long before he was shot. I figure he had probably been poisoned a few hours before, and then was shot with Barney Smith’s gun in order to frame him.” Sherlock nodded his head but didn’t say anything.

“Boys, do we really have to talk about murder at the dinner table?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is the only time besides holidays that we have ever sat at this table to eat dinner,” Sherlock pointed out. Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. Mary reached over and patted her arm but smiled to herself, obviously amused.

“So what exactly does a consulting detective do?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I am the person that the police come to when they are out of their league, which is always.” Sherlock replied.

“And you help him?” I said to John.

“Yes, and then I blog about it.”

“Really? Well I will have to read said blog someday.”

“Oh God, I hope you don’t.” Sherlock moaned. “John is too much of a storyteller.”

“There is nothing wrong with including the details,” John responded.

“Until the details are painstakingly irrelevant,” Sherlock said in annoyance.

“He’s just mad because one time I posted that he didn’t know that the Earth goes around the Sun,” John whispered at me.

“You don’t know that the Earth goes around the Sun?” I asked in disbelief.

“Does it really matter?” Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

“But is elementary school stuff!” I laughed.

“That’s what I said!” John said joining in on my laughter.

When dinner was over, I helped Mrs. Hudson clear the table. “Did it not taste good dear? You didn’t eat very much,” she remarked.

“No, no! It was delicious! I’m just not that hungry,” I assured her. When John and Mary left, Mrs. Hudson followed as she complained about her leg. We thanked her for dinner, and I walked her downstairs. When I came back, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his eyes closed and hands h=under his chin. “I will do the dishes,” I said.

“Do you want help?” he asked without opening his eyes, or moving at all for that matter.

“No, I can manage,” I replied.

“Alright then,” she said standing up suddenly. “I am going to go take a shower then.”

As I worked on the dishes, I sang quietly to myself, trying not to think too much on any one thing. Just as I was drying the last few plates, Sherlock’s deep voice behind me said, “You have a nice voice.”

“Thanks,” I muttered embarrassed as I could feel my cheeks flush. “I didn’t know you were standing there. How was your shower?”

“Refreshing, thanks.” He had changed into a t-shirt and pajama pants and was running a towel over his damp, curly hair. He yawned.

“Uh, Sherlock…” I started.

“Yes?”

“I don’t have any pajamas to sleep in,” I admitted.

“Um, follow me.” We walked into his room. It was simple, with a bed, dresser and a few science posters here and there. He reached into a drawer and pulled out sweatpants and a rather large t-shirt,. The front of it read ‘I don’t understand’ and the back said ‘I still don’t understand’. I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but he just shook his head. “Birthday present from John. It’s a joke from one of our cases. They will be big but they will work until Mary can take you shopping.”

“Thank you Sherlock.” I said as I left his room. I went back upstairs to my own room to change. I pulled the sweatpants on, wincing as I banged my thigh. I also pulled the t-shirt on, but didn’t remove my long-sleeved shirt underneath. The pant I had to fold over three or four times for me to even walk in them without tripping. The drawstring was pulled very tight, causing the fabric to bunch together around the waistband. The shirt dropped all the way to my knees and hung loosely off my shoulders. I looked pretty ridiculous.

When I came back downstairs, Sherlock was playing the violin again, but stopped when I came down. He turned around and chuckled when he saw me drowning in his clothes. “You are rather small aren’t you?” he asked in amusement.

“Well you are rather tall,” I answered.

“Touché.”

“Well I am going to bed now. Goodnight Amy.”

“Goodnight Sherlock. Thanks for everything.” He smiled and patted my shoulder as he walked by me. After he disappeared into the kitchen, I walked over to the bookshelf and began my same routine of lovingly stroking the spines of the books with my index finger, just as if they were old friends. My finger suddenly came to a rest on a copy of a Shakespeare compilation. I started shaking, but removed the book from the shelf anyways. I flipped through the pages until I had reached a familiar story. _Romeo and Juliet_ stared back at me from the page as the tears began to fall. This was my mom’s favorite. She had read it to me countless times, and I had seen every film rendition of it ever created. The shaking started to get worse, and I couldn’t see straight anymore.

I knew what was coming and slid the book back just as I sunk to the floor. The world began to spin, and my head was hurting. The tears were coming faster and faster, and I bit my lip trying to avoid making any noise. My iPod was all the way upstairs, and I couldn’t even see straight, let alone walk up a flight of stairs. Blood began filling my mouth and I tried to not bite so hard on my lip.

“Amy I forgot my pho-….Amy?” Sherlock came out of his room to find me curled up on the floor in the middle of an anxiety attack. Great. Now he was aware that he was living with a mentally unstable person. I could have died right then and there. “Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, not quite knowing what to do. When he didn’t receive an answer, he came and sat down next to me and began to stroke my back gently, as if he was afraid he would hurt me. He leaned forward and ever so gently, pulled me up next to him, hesitating at first, but following through when I made no attempt of resisting. He held me and stroked me awkwardly until the attack died down.

I wiped the tears away and sat up. Sherlock removed his arm from my back and looked at me concerned. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I understand if you want me to move out.”

“Why would I want you to move out? Because you had an anxiety attack? That is no reason for you to go anywhere Amy. Hell, John once walked in on me shooting the wall out of boredom, and never once questioned my living with him.”

“You shot the wall?” I sniffed.

“Yep,” he said and pointed to the wall where a yellow smiley face was spray painted, and bullet holes traced the outline of it. I smiled and wiped my nose. Sherlock was definitely not as intimidating as I thought.

I sighed and said, “Well I suppose I should go to sleep.”

“Sleep? You suffer from insomnia. You would not go upstairs and sleep. You would go up there and start to think and that would lead you to have another attack. I can’t sleep either, so why don’t we just go sit on the couch and talk?”

“How do you know I have insomnia?”

“You have dark circles under your eyes and yawn continuously. You obviously have anxiety, and depression. All are factors of, and results of insomnia. Plus, my homeless network said that they have rarely seen you sleep when I asked about you.”

“Homeless network?”

“My connections throughout the city.”

“Oh. Well can we move to the couch then?” Sherlock stood and then helped me up, making sure that I was steady before letting go of my elbow. He sat down and I plopped down next to him. We adjusted and I leaned over and put my head on his shoulder. He stiffened, but didn’t reject. Then slowly he put his arm around my shoulder and stroked it. I trusted this man so much, and only after a day. It honestly scared me, but I wasn’t about to complain. I liked to have someone to rely on. “Will you tell me about the case you are working on?”

Sherlock began to talk, and quite quickly. I only listened for a few minutes before I got really sleepy. Slowly, his melodious words started slurring together and my eyelids got really heavy. After a moment, he stopped talking and looked down at me. He shifted over so that he was sitting all the way at the edge of the couch and laid me down on the couch so that I was lengthwise with my head on a pillow that was propped against his knee. Finally he grabbed the blanket that I woke up wrapped in, and draped it over us. He propped his elbow on the arm of the couch, put his head on it, and yawned. “Goodnight Amy,” he mumbled.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” I whispered and slowly let myself drift off into the best sleep I had had in ages.


	4. Chapter 4

When I woke up, Sherlock had already removed himself from the couch and was sitting at the dinner table talking to John and Mary it sounded like. I was about to get up and stretch when I heard Sherlock say my name, and I froze. I didn’t move, and pretended like I was still asleep. I wanted badly to listen to what they were saying.

“It was weird, I have never seen anybody have that bad of an attack. I felt so helpless watching her.”

“What do you think triggered it?” asked John.

“I have no clue, I was just coming back into the room to get my phone when I found her on the floor, curled up, crying, and shaking violently. At first I didn’t even think she knew I was in the same room with her.”

“Poor girl,” murmured Mary sadly.

Sherlock sighed, “I wish I knew what was wrong so that I could help her. There is something worse than anxiety and depression going on. I can tell.”

“How?” John asked curiously.

“It’s like she is afraid of her own shadow. She apologizes constantly, and is very…I don’t know. Yesterday though, she was very intent on asking me about using the shower even though I told her she didn’t have to ask.”

“Do you think she is scared of going back on the street?” Mary asked after a moment of silence.

“Possibly,” replied John. “Hey, she said that her mom passed away right?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did. Why?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress! I had it when I came back from Afghanistan,” said John. “She has all the symptoms. Anxiety, insomnia, constant fear of losing something, which in this case would be losing us, and or our approval. She has found somebody that she trusts and we have to let her know that she isn’t going anywhere, and we will take care of her.”

“She looks really calm and content right now,” said Mary and I heard them all turn in their chairs to look at me. I tried really hard to control the heat I felt rising to my cheeks.

“That is the most relaxed I have seen her since we met her,” John chimed in.

“You should have seen her last night when she fell asleep on me.”

“She fell asleep on you?” said Mary surprised.

“Well after her attack, we went to sit on the couch, and she sort of just drifted off.”

“You didn’t move her all night did you Sherlock?” laughed John.

“Well, no I didn’t. I was pretty comfortable too…”

“Aw, you really are just a big softie aren’t you?” teased Mary. I could almost hear Sherlock’s eyes rolling.

“She is drowning in your clothes Sherlock,” said John.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said in response, “Mary, would you mind taking her shopping for some clothes? She has next to nothing. I will cover it, so don’t worry. Get her whatever she needs.”

“Of course I will!”

“Bad idea mate,” said John.

“What is?” they both asked and turned to look at him.

“Giving my wife no budget, and setting her loose in a store,” he finished calmly. Mary playfully smacked him and Sherlock chuckled.

It was at this point that I decided to ‘wake up’. I rolled over and groaned as I covered my eyes with my arm, blocking out the sun as if I had just opened my eyes. “Good morning sleepyhead,” Mary laughed. “You are definitely not an early riser are you?”

“What time is it?” I asked, trying to sound groggy.

“It is nearly noon,” Sherlock answered for her.

“Is it really?” I asked in actual surprise. “I never sleep in this late.”

“Well I’m sure you were tired after all the events that went on yesterday,” said John and I could tell that he didn’t just mean my moving into the flat.

“Yeah, probably,” I said dumbly.

“Why don’t you go shower and then you and I will go do some shopping,” Mary smiled kindly.

“Alright,” I said and rubbed my eyes, adding to my waking up performance.

“And eat this,” John chimed in handing me a piece of toast. “You barely ate any dinner last night.” I took the toast from him, and took a bite of it, thanking him as I went up the stairs to my bedroom. When I reached my desk, I set down the toast though, and didn’t eat any more of it. I gathered my effects, and a new outfit, as well as my blade.

I went back down the stairs and saw Sherlock sitting on his chair, hands folded under his chin. “Why does he do that?” I asked John who was still sitting at the table with Mary drinking his coffee.

“He is in his mind palace”

“What the heck is that?” I laughed.

“It’s a memory technique. It doesn’t have to be an actual place. The way it works, you put information there, and theoretically you’ll never forget it, you just have to find your way back to it,” he said sounding as if he had rehearsed it.

“Interesting, I will remember that,” I replied as I made my way back to the bathroom. When I got there, I did the same routine of stripping down, and turning the shower on, almost full heat. Then, I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed the morning breath away. I felt much better afterwards, and tried to ignore the urge to take the blade to my arm and hopped in the shower. A few of the cuts from yesterday were healing, but I grimaced when I saw my thighs. Flesh was hanging all over the place in bits and pieces. Alright, maybe I shouldn’t have gone as far as I did, and carefully washed my legs.

Eventually, my stomach began to hurt and churn, I was needed to cut so badly. I put my hands over my face and tried my hardest to ignore it. Soon, I felt like screaming, I needed it so badly. I stepped out of the shower dripping, and grabbed the blade off of the counter and hopped back in the shower. Even just holding it took some of the tension away. I looked my arms over trying to find an empty spot, but it was to no avail.

I needed this, and my mouth was watering in anticipation as I made a decision. I held the blade to my stomach and gulped. I had never cut my stomach before and was actually hesitant to do so, but I was desperate. I hovered the blade not quite sure where to begin. It was like the first time I had ever cut myself.

I had had a horrible fight with my father, this being a week after my mom’s funeral. He had gotten drunk and was yelling at me because I didn’t do the dishes like he asked me to. In the middle of his yelling and waving his arms, and me trying not to cry, he fell over and passed out. I ran to his room and went under his bed and grabbed the hunting bag that resided there. I dug through it until I found what I was looking for…his shiny hunting knife. I walked back through the kitchen, and grabbed a box of matches and flipped my dad off before I went back to my room.

Once in, I shut and locked the door and stalked to my bed, dropping the matches and knife on the comforter. I stared at the knife and finally, picked up the matches and took one out of the box. I struck it on the side, lighting it and passing it over the blade of the knife to kill any germs. Then, after sitting with my legs hanging over the side of the bed, and turning the knife over and over studying the cool shiny metal, I pressed it to my arm. I dragged it across, causing blood to fall over the sides of the cut. I chewed my lip wincing at the pain, and swearing to myself I would never do it again.

Only a couple short months later, here I was standing in the shower, slicing my stomach, because I had run out of room elsewhere. Hovering the blade over my naval, I sighed in discontent, but was relieved when the blood began to trickle down my sides. That should be able to hold me over, even though it was only one cut. Disgusted with myself, I finished my shower, and dried off. I got dressed and shoved the blade in the heap of clothes that included my long sleeve shirt, and Sherlock’s shirt and pants.

I exited the bathroom as I ran my fingers through my damp hair. When I got back into the kitchen, Mary and John were gone, and Sherlock still hadn’t moved, although he did open his eyes when I came out. “Where are Mary and John? I thought we were going shopping?” They went downstairs to help Mrs. Hudson hang a painting. How was your shower?”

“It was fine, thanks,” I replied a little bit more snarky than I meant to. After all he was only trying to be nice to me, but for some reason, I was really pissed off. He raised his eyebrows in confusion as to why I snapped.

“Are you alright Amy? You aren’t having another…you know…attack?”

“No Sherlock, I’m fine. I promise. Thank you.” I could see that he didn’t believe me, but I tried to ignore it and just get back upstairs.

“Um, Amy, you might want to watch out for the box…”

“What box?” I said just as I tripped over a box full of folders and sent mine and Sherlock’s clothes, my shower stuff, and one little shiny, blood stained razor sailing through the air. The blade bounced and skidded until it came to a rest next to Sherlock’s shoe. I wished that I could have melted through the floor as he looked up at me and back down to the razor in disbelief.

He stooped down to pick it up just as John and Mary came in through the door laughing, but they stopped when they saw what Sherlock was holding. I hadn’t moved from where I had fallen until I curled up my knees to my chest and buried my head in my hands. “No, no, no, no,” I moaned.

“Amy what is this?” asked Sherlock. I looked up to see three worried faces looking at me. Man I wished I could die.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review and make me happy!


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